


so give me a blanket for my cold cold heart

by siriuslyjess



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy!Steve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Infantilism, Little!Bucky - Freeform, Littles, Non-Sexual Age Play, Other, Panic Attacks, Rocket is having an existential crisis, Steve is a good dad, baby!Rocket, but that's okay, little!Clint, little!peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyjess/pseuds/siriuslyjess
Summary: When the Guardians come to stay at Stark tower after they and the Avengers collaborate on a mission, they find out about Bucky and Clint being Littles. Peter and Rocket find what they’ve been searching for. (Set post GotG II and therefore has spoilers.) I accidentally orphaned the first chapter of this story pls read the real version here!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted the GotG to interact with some other MCU!Littles, so this is post-Guardians/Avengers eventual, inevitable link-up. They are all in Stark tower.
> 
> Featuring Daddy!Steve, toddler!Bucky and little!Clint, with eventual Mommy!Gamora, Baby!Rocket and Toddler!Peter. Despite certain characters being given parental titles, looking after all the Littles is sort of a communal Stark Tower effort, though both Peter and Rocket are still getting used to it all.
> 
> This is very far removed from canon tbh. The events of both GotG 1+2 canonically occur in the year 2014, before Civil War etc, but yet I’m including Bucky, but none of the other “new” Avengers. It’s just Tony, Clint, Natasha, Sam, Thor, (who doesn't live in the tower but drops by!), Bruce, Bucky and Steve! This story also does not feature Nebula or Mantis.
> 
> In this fic, sadly, Groot has already grown up, but that just means he is now the best tree babysitter ever.

The playroom on the communal floor of Avengers’ Tower was impressively expansive. A huge, open plan space with floor to ceiling windows, a soft play area, boxes of lego, coloring books strewn across a table, and a big screen TV. Fuzzy blankets and pillows piled up on side of the sofa, and stacks of DVDs and games, huge beanbags and a toy chest brimming with all sorts of neat things. As a kid, he would've killed for a place like it. 

He tended to hang around the playroom most days - they were recuperating from a long and unsuccessful mission chasing leads on Thanos with the Avengers, along with some smaller missions, showing them how to guard the Galaxy. The true emotional upheaval had been coming back to Earth for the first time since he was taken away. It was horrifyingly different.

Upon searching for his grandparents, he found out his Grandpa had passed away five years ago. His Grandma before that, even. His uncle too, decades ago. He had no living family. He was the last Quill.

Despite going through this trauma, he had to admit that moving into Stark tower, albeit just for this break they were having, was an amazing experience. Tony Stark was an ever-generous host, and the Guardians had wanted for nothing. They had a floor in the tower with separate bedrooms and bathrooms, a communal kitchen and living area, and even a balcony that overlooked New York City. Peter remembered dreaming about up and leaving his sleepy Missouri town and going to New York, he used to believe that when he turned eighteen he’d be old and wise enough to face the big city. Now that he was here, even though he realized he’d seen much bigger cities on planets much more advanced, nothing beat the view of Earth’s New York. He told Gamora, Drax, Rocket and Groot all about it before they had arrived, showed them movies, explained about the pizza and the bagels and the coffee, the buildings, the accents. He saturated them with so much NYC culture, even they had been excited to see it.

The Avengers were good allies in battle without a doubt, but they were also surprisingly good friends. Peter felt welcome there, and stumbling upon their unorthodox way of unwinding had been easier to accept than he thought it would. They had been up front about it before arriving back on Earth, and he thought he’d be beyond weirded out. Yet it seemed so minuscule next to everything else that was happening once he got here. Who cares if Bucky and Clint pretend to be little kids? His team members mostly took it well - Groot, of course, did not judge. He made a brilliant babysitter in fact, letting the boys climb on him and using his extending branches to make racetracks for their toy cars.

Gamora took some time to come around, having limited experience dealing with any children. Once she did, she interacted with them quite a bit, even telling them some Zehoberei stories she remembered from her own childhood. Drax wasn’t familiar with Earth customs and assumed it was normal, and he enjoyed the company of the littles.

However, Rocket was another story. He found it odd, and was awful at biting his tongue about it, just like he was about literally anything. The others were working on it, but Peter found Rocket’s reaction strange. Making such a big deal out of it. Rocket avoided the playroom and often avoided the communal floor altogether. It didn’t help that he was on house arrest. They all were.

Of course, the Avengers had informed the US government of the Guardians’ presence, but two aliens, a boy that had been abducted from Earth without a trace, a walking tree and a talking raccoon all joining the Avengers were each too much of a PR nightmare to deal with at once. So this Earth trip was taken in secret. Rocket took this the hardest. Not to mention, he was going through trauma of his own; an identity crisis. Peter had long looked forward to him finding out what a raccoon _actually_ was, but it had broken Rocket’s heart to know he was so far removed from his species. He had laughed it off after Tony and Bruce showed him videos of wild raccoons doing silly things, but only Peter knew that after they had gone up to their rooms, Rocket had poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and asked to be left alone. That was last week, and since then had only seen Rocket out of his room a handful of times.

Peter can hear Steve reading to Bucky and Clint in the playroom. He has this melodic way of storytelling, gives each character a funny voice and really delivers those punchlines. He has both the kids in hysterics half the time, or alternatively, if they read a sad story, he’ll convey the emotion so well they might both end up in silent tears. Peter leans up against the door and takes in the cozy scene - Steve’s back to him, reading Where The Wild Things Are, with Bucky and Clint curled up on the beanbag under a blanket, both looking halfway to sleep.

Steve Rogers had long been the character of Peter’s childhood comics, a war hero, the greatest American that ever lived. Truth, freedom, bravery, all that good stuff. Now, Steve had stepped in to help him through coming to terms with this new Earth, with all of his family gone, and his friends scattered to four corners of the globe and no way to contact any of them. He guessed everyone in his town in Missouri probably assumed he was dead - the missing child case must’ve gone cold years ago. He was ruined by thinking too much about everyone who had been hurt by his disappearance, it wrecked him almost as much as spending his life agonizing about not taken his dying mother’s hand in his, letting her last words come out as an urgent plea. He had only stopped thinking about that every night, and now these new thoughts haunted him, picturing his desperate Grandparents having just lost their child and grandchild on the same day, hopelessly believing he might come home. Everything that had happened in the past year, both finally meeting and having to kill his deranged Father, and losing his Dad, Yondu, was still fresh in his mind too. Coupled with knowing how badly he hurt his family, the thoughts were like a river building up behind a dam. Overwhelming him, threatening to drown him.

Steve never wavered on supporting him through it all since coming here. He claimed it was the Dad in him, and he always made sure Peter slept, ate, and bathed, but he was also the man who had been frozen for seventy years and come out to find his friends and family gone. He completely understood Peter on that level and never patronized him, but gave him honest advice about what it was like for him, and ways for Peter to deal with the many emotions assailing him at once. Growing up with the Ravagers, Peter had to stow away his empathetic nature, his sensitivity. Here, it seemed to be encouraged.

Tony even arranged to get him a therapist right in the tower for sessions once a week, which was good because he was dealing with severe anxiety whenever it came to leaving his floor. He wanted to punch himself because it was so ridiculous. He’d been on worlds with perpetual Earthquakes, poisonous gas, alien species that could swallow him whole. He’d happily get in the Milano and fly a few star systems away, but somehow Earth, despite its banality in comparison to the places he’d been, seemed terrifying beyond comprehension. Steve would just sit and listen to his fears.

Peter broke out of his reverie when he realized Steve was finishing his story to the boys, so decided to steal away for some alone time.

***

He sat in his room and turned on the StarkPad Tony had graciously given him. He opened Google, and knew there was only one thing he wanted to do right now.  
He googled his Grandfather’s name, against his better judgement.  
Of course, the results revealed links to archived newspaper articles about the mysterious 1988 Missouri child disappearance. Appeals were made, his Grandparents had done interviews. He even managed to stumble upon had a follow-up interview they did in 2003, saying they weren’t giving up hope and ending it with, “if you’re out there, Peter, know that we love you. We miss you so much, and we think about you every day. Come home.” He felt his blood run cold and the sentences blurred, his hands began to tremble, his shaking fingertips brushing against the words.

In a fit of rage, he threw the StarkPad as hard as he could across the room, letting out a pained noise that he wanted to be a yell but was probably more of a whimper. He wanted to do something, anything, but continue living with this guilt. A sob caught in his throat and hot tears spilled down his cheeks, and he wailed, barely able to catch his breath between pitiful cries. He slid off the bed and onto the floor, hugging himself around his knees, thinking about every person he had lost - his Mom, Yondu, his Grandpa, his Grandma, his uncle. His ravager buddies that had died in the mutiny. He even felt something for Ego, his monster of a father, simply because he had spent his life wishing to meet him, and was crushed to find out what he did. He hadn’t cried like this in so long, so long in fact that he couldn’t bring to mind when he had last cried out loud about anything after he grew up. That was just it - he didn’t feel grown up. He wanted his Mom and he wanted Yondu and he wanted his Grandpa. He sucked in more air and let it out in a quiet moan, rubbing at his snotty nose. He couldn’t regulate his breathing and calm down. Then, there were two swift knocks on his door.

“Peter? Peter, I’m coming in, okay?”  
Steve burst in, and to Peter’s far off, vague amusement, was holding a plate of pancakes obviously meant for him. Yet he could only look up at the Captain plaintively, his breath hitching and shoulders quaking as he continued to cry.  
“Oh, honey.” He placed them on the bedside table and knelt next to Peter, grabbing a tissue out of his back pocket and wiping at his nose. He held the tissue over his nose. “Blow.”  
Peter did and felt like a baby. He had seen Clint and Bucky cry, for various reasons and at varying volumes. They never cried for long because Steve knew just what to do. Peter felt an urge come over him in his vulnerability, and he stretched his two arms up towards Steve.  
Steve didn’t need any other prompting and gathered Peter under his arms and heaved him up onto his hip. He sat down on the bed with Peter on his lap, rubbing his back and simply letting him cry. He bounced his legs gently, and reached a comforting hand up to run through Peter’s hair. Peter knew he should feel utterly embarrassed, he was getting tears and snot and probably drool on Actual Captain Freaking America right now.  
“Pete, I want you to breathe for me. Remember how Anna showed you?” His therapist, Anna, had taught him how to breathe through a panic attack, but this felt different. This wasn’t panic. This just felt like pain.  
Nevertheless, he felt himself calm down somewhat, the rhythmic bouncing and rubbing of his back and hair made him melt even more into Steve. He hiccuped a few times, but they remained in a wordless embrace for a few minutes, which Steve eventually broke.  
“Do you wanna talk about it?”  
“I…”  
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”  
“I’m not a baby.”  
It wasn’t what Peter actually wanted to say, but he felt like he had to so that Cap would take him seriously.  
He made no move to actually get off his lap.  
“You don’t have to be a baby to need a hug and someone to listen to you.”  
Peter nods slowly and moves his head from Steve’s shoulder to his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. After a few minutes of this, he pulled away and looked over Steve’s shoulder to the abandoned StarkPad, which had luckily landed on soft carpet and sustained no breakages. He cast his eyes down and started absentmindedly fiddling with the cuff of Steve’s shirt.  
“My new tablet, I googled my…my Grandpa on it. An’ he left a message for me years ago in an interview about my dis’pearence. ’N it made my cry ‘cause I miss him, and it made me think on how bad I miss everyone else.”  
“That’s only natural.” Steve gently brushed his hair back from his flushed face.  
“Yeah. I never really thought about it once I got older. But losin’ Yondu, comin’ here again…I feel so weird. I’ve had two sessions with Anna but I haven’t cried about it all. Just now is the first time.”  
“You can talk to me about anything at all, you know that right?”  
“I know, Steve.”

In the ensuing silence, he felt awkward, wanting to get off his lap but feeling stuck there. Suddenly there was a tinny cry. A baby monitor app on Steve’s phone told him one of the boys was awake. Peter hopped up off his lap, trying to quell the disappointment of their moment being cut short.  
“Eat a few bites of pancake and drink some water, buddy. I’m gonna take care of this, but don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, okay?”  
Peter took the glass in a shaky hand and nodded. “Thanks.”  
“Don’t mention it. Pancakes! Eat.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Peter wanting to cry again.  
Except this time, it was just so that Steve would come running back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of alcohol/alcoholism in this chapter!  
> So sorry for the long wait, I’ve had a weird/bad month. Writing this has been a nice escape :)

 

Rocket had very, very vague memories of his mother. 

 

The memories feel distant and dreamlike, are sort of monochrome, and fairly hazy. He _does_ know that she looked like him, and so did all of his siblings. He remembers a general feeling of safety, and a subsequent feeling of pure terror when he was taken away from her. The experiments started, and that’s where his long-term memories really take shape. 

 

Coming to Earth meant he learned what he really was—a raccoon. All this time, he knew he wasn’t like any other creature he’d seen on his travels, but he could only work with what he knew about himself. That whatever he had been to begin with was enhanced by the scientists who had implanted the hardware into his back and cybernetically engineered him to be a pilot, a physically enhanced fighter, an excellent marksman, and beyond intelligent for his species. 

Finding out what raccoons were had been the existential nightmare of his entire existence. 

 

“Wait, so you’ve never _seen_ a raccoon? What about your family, y’know, your Mom must’ve been a raccoon, right? …Please tell me she was a raccoon.” 

 

Tony Stark had pestered him a few days into their stay at the tower. They were in Stark’s lab, at his behest. Banner and himself had quite the set up, Rocket had to admit, and he loved tinkering with all his robots, blasters and inventions. He could _definitely_ make something blow up. On their unsuccessful mission to find Thanos, Tony and Rocket spent most of their time trying to out-quip each other, and they had their fair share of shouting matches. That was manageable for Rocket, that was his language. This was something else entirely. 

 

“Nah, but I hear yours was, Stark.” 

 

He knows it’s a weak insult, but this conversation was creeping into uncomfortable territory, and he was thrown. Bruce gave a low whistle. Tony gave him a mock incredulous look. 

 

“Yeesh, buddy. I thought we were friends. Okay, I’ll show you then. JARVIS, can you throw up a compilation of funny raccoon videos for our uninitiated friend over here?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

 

A screen materialized in front of them playing a YouTube video, some jaunty music accompanying clips of raccoons. One, presumably a pet, rides a tiny bicycle. Another swims, a pack of them beg for food. A raccoon mother helps her baby climb a tree. Rocket tried to remember if his mother ever did that with him. Rocket tried his hardest to remember _anything_ about being this simple little creature. It looked just like him, but it didn’t talk, or drink, or fly a spacecraft. 

 

The video ended and the screen vanished, and he only realized he had spaced out, staring at the blank wall, when the two men stepped into his line of focus. He realized his ears are flat against his head. He shook himself, forced himself to laugh, and tried to look coolly composed. Amused.

 

“…Well. I sure can’t believe something as brilliant as myself came from something as, as dumb as one a’them.”

  
“Y’know, we could make a lot of money off you if you pretended to be a normal raccoon and did cute stuff. The clips would go viral, we could sell them off to advertising companies. I’m telling you.” Tony said, clapping him on the back—avoiding his inbuilt hardware, Rocket noted.

 

He continued to chuckle dumbly at the two humans. 

 

“I’d get all the money though, right?” 

 

“It’s my idea, so we’d have to split the profits. See that raccoon riding a bike? We could do one better, have you ride a hover board. Holy shit. Or put you in frilly dress up clothes from the kids’ dress up box, and get you a pair of roller skates.”

 

Rocket pushed himself down off his chair. His tail twitched.

“Stark, you try and put me in frilly clothes, I’ll blast both your hands off.”

 

The threat comes out uncharacteristically humorless, and Rocket doesn’t notice Tony and Bruce giving each other a long look. Tony dropped the subject, picking up the toy plane he was tinkering with before.

 

“So. Do you think Bucky and Clint would like this? Clint said they just wanted it to fly, and Steve warned me _not_ to put lasers on it, but, I just don’t see what’s so wrong with lasers.” 

 

“…No way. They will definitely end up destroying the entire communal floor if you put that in there.” Bruce crosses the lab and pulls the toy out of Tony’s hands. “Hey!” 

 

Dum-E wheeled itself over, whirring and beeping, to Rocket. The little robot always seems to understand when somebody isn’t happy. The robot stretched its claw out to scratch Rocket behind the ears, but he swatted it away. 

 

“I’m gonna go tell the others I finally saw what a fuckin’ raccoon actually is.” 

Tony and Bruce said something then, but he’d already darted up the stairs and out of the lab. 

 

***

 

Rocket just wants to make Hot Pockets, but its three in the morning and the stupid microwave is really loud. He knows he’ll wake up somebody if he tries to make it in the Guardians’ kitchen. He’s trying hard to avoid everyone.It’s mostly worked—he’s seen Peter a few times, and Groot has sought him out once or twice, keeps trying to get him to talk about his _feelings_ or whatever. He just tells them all to piss off and leave him alone, that he just wants to get back out and guard the galaxy again. Gamora told him to enjoy the break, but he was starting to get sick of being stuck in the tower. Though he shouldn’t really complain. The tower was ninety-three stories, with a gym, pool, roof gardens, floors of research facilities—and that playroom. That playroom that just freaked him out, no matter how much everyone else seemed fine with it. 

 

He had fought alongside Clint and Bucky, only to find out they acted like human children in their downtime. It messed with his head. Almost as much as finding out he’s actually meant to be some kind of garbage-eating, hole-dwelling fleabag, and that he has no idea what became of his mother and siblings after he was taken away from them. That if he met them now, he wouldn’t know how to interact with them anyway.

 

Most days were spent sleeping, or eating, and oftentimes drinking. There was a huge liquor cabinet on the communal floor, and Tony had said _help yourself,_ so really, it wasn’t Rocket’s fault. Drax would invite him to spar, or Peter would ask him to watch a movie with him, but most days he’d get drunk and Google raccoon facts. 

 

He looks around the dark expanse of the apartment Tony had provided for the five Guardians. The slight glow of the buttons on the elevator is the only light that catches his eye out in the living area. His paw twitches. He might go for a nightcap. 

 

He cringes as the elevator dings and he steps out into the communal area. The lights are already on, dimly. He doesn’t really think about it, guesses JARVIS has registered he’s walking around, or something. He walks over to the cabinet and starts to fiddle with the dumb child lock. That is, until his ears swivel towards a humming sound. There’s someone on the couch. _Two_ someones.

 

“Rocket?” 

 

It’s Steve. He’s sitting on the couch, with Bucky is curled up on his lap as if he’s half the size he actually is, sucking on a pacifier. There’s a nearly empty bottle of milk on the coffee table, which Rocket guesses he’s just finished with.

 

“Ah jeez, I didn’t—I’m really sorry, I thought it was empty up here. I was just…getting a drink.”

 

“I see that.” Steve raises an eyebrow.

Bucky looks sleepily at Rocket, fingers toying with Steve’s pyjama top. There’s an awkward silence, which Rocket decides to break.

“How come you guys are up here anyway?”

 

“We were on different floors. Bucky went to bed, big, on his own floor, but he woke up from a nightmare little, and JARVIS woke me. So we came up here. We sort of accidentally crashed on the couch.” Steve is speaking softly, sleepily. Rocket nods. 

 

“Nigh’mares aren’ nice,” Bucky adds, words muffled by the pacifier. Steve kisses him on the forehead. 

 

“I bet they ain’t, kid.” Rocket says, realizing he’s barely interacted with either Clint or Bucky since coming back from the mission. He feels awkward.

 

“Uh-uh,” Bucky agrees, seeming to wake up a little bit. He plucks the pacifier out of his mouth. 

“Did you have one?” 

 

Rocket _has_ been having nightmares unless he drinks. He takes so long to go asleep, and then he’s plagued by different scenarios. Leaving Peter to die on Ego’s planet. Wild raccoons breaking into the tower and eating him. The scientists, with their white coats and white walls and metal cages. Tonight, it hadn’t been a visual dream, just sounds, horrific screeching noises of baby raccoons being separated from their mother.

 

“I did have one, actually. Yeah.” He says. Bucky nods solemnly.

 

“When I feel bad, Daddy makes me a bottle and cuddles me, and I feel lots better.” 

Steve chuckles at Bucky’s naivety, and Rocket has to admit, it’s pretty cute, for a dude who’s like a hundred years old. 

 

“I was thinking of a bottle of something alright…” 

 

“Yay! Daddy, make Rocky a baba.” says Bucky, oblivious to Rocket’s allusion to the liquor cabinet. He squirms and Steve releases him, after an expertly subtle diaper check. The boy seemed to be miles away from half asleep now.

 

“Buck, it’s 3am. Let’s get you up to my room, into a fresh diaper, and we’ll cuddle, okay?”

 

“But Daddy,” Bucky managing to stretch the word out impressively, “Rocket had a nightmare like me. He shouldn’t be all on his lonesome right now.” 

 

Before Steve can say anything, Bucky snatches the bottle off the table and heads over to the kitchen, clumsily pouring the milk into the bottle. Rocket feels bad.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry, I, I didn’t mean to get him all jazzed up when you almost had him back asleep, Steve, I—“ 

 

“It’s fine, Rocket,” Steve says. He stands up, stretching, full height towering over Rocket’s. 

 

“But we should probably talk about this drinking habit. I have a feeling this isn’t the first time you’ve come up here, is it?” 

 

Rocket scoffs but doesn’t answer. The microwave starts up over in the kitchen.

 

“Ah, I’m gonna bring Bucky to bed. But I’d like you to stay here, I just want to talk to you.” 

Steve strides over and stops the microwave, scooping up Bucky and taking the bottle out. 

 

“We’re going to bed now, bud. Say night-night to Rocket.” Steve hands Bucky the bottle, but Bucky stretches it towards Rocket. 

“For Rocky!” He whines. Steve sighs.

 

Rocket can tell he just wants to get his kid to bed, so he places the bottle in front of Rocket, gives Bucky his pacifier and disappears into the elevator. 

 

“Stay here, please.” He says to Rocket before the doors slide closed. 

 

Rocket is left in the low light of the living room, staring at the bottle. It has little cartoon kittens on it, animals with pointy ears and whiskers, just like him. Triangle-faced, as Ego said. He thought about how much he wanted to just get into that stupid liquor cabinet and go upstairs with a fifth of vodka. He never had trouble disobeying orders his entire life. 

 

But something made him stay. 

 

The way Steve had been with Bucky. The way he was so patient with him, Rocket had been told how much Bucky had seen and gone through in his long life, he deserves to feel safe and loved now. Something grounded him there, staring at the bottle of milk. The whole idea freaked him out if he was honest. Pretending to be a kid, having someone look after you, letting go of your inhibitions. He had never done that, his entire life, or at least as far back as he can remember. 

 

He has always guarded himself and lived independently, becoming a mercenary, escaping prisons and interpersonal relationships alike. The Guardians had changed his entire life, he had a family now, he had helped raise baby Groot back to adulthood, and now he was an honorary (if currently secret) member of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. 

 

Yondu had been the first person to see right through his exterior. It shook Rocket to his core, and he had a pretty intense period of self-reflection after Yondu died. In the end, it hadn’t changed his behavior much, except that he wasn’t quite as mean to his friends anymore. Besides, now he could just take it out on Tony Stark. 

 

That being said, even Stark was a friend to him. It was getting harder and harder to keep up his whole sharp-teeth-and-claws, angry, friendless bounty hunter shtick now that he had so many people in his life that actually gave a shit about him. He spent so long mistrusting everyone after those bastard scientists messed with him, and now for the first time in a long time, he knew he wasn’t alone. Yet, he couldn’t allow himself to completely let his guard down, to properly make sense of the journey he’d been on. Despite knowing he was loved, it was hard to get used to, and even harder to 

 

There was a reason Bucky and Clint’s littleness bothered him. Knowing that they were strong, capable fighters in the field, but also little kids, and their found family didn’t care either way. 

 

It felt something like envy. 

 

He sat down on the couch and decides to wait for Steve. Maybe he can pluck up the courage to ask him something about what their whole deal is. 

 

The bottle is within reach, and when a few minutes pass with no Steve, he gives up on trying to ignore it and touches it with a paw. It’s still quite warm after being zapped in the microwave, he realises, picking it up in his two paws. He wonders if his pointy teeth would damage the rubber teat. He doesn’t feel any safer or more comfortable after picking it up and holding it like a baby, he just feels like kind of a dumbass. He figures he should try a bit, just for the sake of it. The bottle isn’t made for a creature his size, and the teat is a bit big in his mouth, but he soon understands how to get the right flow of milk going. It’s pleasant—sweet, warm, slightly spiced?

 

He feels himself sink into the pillows behind, one hand flopping down while the other holds up the bottle. He has to admit it’s calming him now. It’s rhythmic, and the taste is distantly familiar to him. Rocket gives himself a fright when he feels a low rumble in his throat, a biological response to the contentment he was feeling. He was _purring_. He yanks the bottle out of his mouth, suddenly a little too weirded out to continue. 

 

But it had felt so nice. 

 

There’s still a little less than half a bottle left, and still no sign of Steve, so he decides to throw caution to the wind and lie a little more comfortably on the couch, adjusting the cushions and sucking on the bottle again. The milk isn’t as warm anymore but its still very pleasant, and he feels his eyelids grow heavy. Days of patchy sleep were catching up to him. He feels a low purr in his throat again, but this time lets himself relax with it, sinking into the cushions on the huge couch. 

 

For the first time in his life, he feels really, really, small. 

 

***

 

Bucky took a while to get down, which was not unusual after having his sleep disturbed by a nightmare. At first he just wanted Steve to read _Goodnight, Moon,_ but that evolved into wanting water, and to pick a second stuffed animal to sleep with, and for Daddy to please please stay and sleep with him. 

 

Of course, Steve wanted to just crawl into bed with him and go to sleep, but Rocket’s behavior was worrying all of them, and he saw this as an opportunity to go and talk to him. When Bucky’s breathing finally evened out, Steve slipped out of the room. He felt so distracted the entire day, his earlier encounter with Peter still fresh in his mind. Before heading to bed the first time, he had visited Peter in his bedroom, and discussed how he thought playing with Clint and Bucky might really benefit him. 

 

“No, Steve. I’d—I’d feel too awkward. It’s fine for them, they’ve been doing it for a while now, but I, I’m supposed to lead my team, y’know…and…stuff.” He wrung his hands a little, not meeting Steve’s eye.

 

Steve understood. It was a big ask. But the boy had seemed so vulnerable earlier, so open and honest, and maybe it was just Steve’s caregiver tendencies, but he seemed so _little_. Plus, he had sat in for story time before, and built legos with Clint and Bucky. He liked watching cartoons in the playroom and had even fallen asleep in there before.

 

“You don’t have to. But the offer is there, Peter. Tomorrow, come up to the playroom, like you would do some days anyway. We’ll have breakfast together and you can just have a nice day with the boys. You don’t have to be any different than you are right now, just be willing and open to free your mind a little bit.” Steve had said. He really didn’t want to pressure him, but he felt like Peter wasn’t saying no for his own sake, but rather for what he thought his team would say.

 

“I don’t have to pretend to a little kid?” He asked cautiously.

 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

 

“And…what if I…do want to pretend to be a little kid?”

 

Steve took both of Peter’s hands in his and ran his thumbs over the boy’s knuckles. 

 

“Just focus on having fun. However you feel is however you feel, and it’s never wrong.”

 

Steve thinks about Peter’s determinedly hopeful nod as the elevator opens once again on the communal floor. The lights are down, and he momentarily assumes that Rocket has fled the scene, probably with a bottle of something from the cabinet. But the cabinet is still child locked, and lying on the couch on the opposite side of the room is Rocket himself, fast asleep, tiny paw loosely gripping on the bottle Bucky had made him earlier, now empty.

 

Steve is slightly stunned. Out of everyone in the tower, Rocket had been the least receptive to Clint and Bucky, giving the playroom a wide berth and generally avoiding them all, little or not. Peter he could see needing this a mile off, but he feels exceptionally stupid for not guessing the ultra-macho, ultra-angry Rocket might be compensating for lack of emotional fulfillment, and probably needs it even more. 

 

There’s no use in waking Rocket now, especially because Steve reckons he probably didn’t think he’d fall asleep and be caught like this.

 

He stands over the tiny being, apprehensive about moving him, mostly due to not wanting to be bitten if he woke up. He starts by gently removing the bottle, which doesn’t wake him. Then he slips a hand under his head and the other under his legs, and delicately lifts Rocket to cradle at his chest. He is still sound asleep, whiskers twitching a little as Steve realizes he’s watching him so intently that he’s breathing on them.

 

***

 

Rocket cracks one eye open and blearily looks around. He feels the sensation of being carried, two strong arms holding him tight against what he realizes is Steve’s broad chest. He is pleasantly cozy, and truly too exhausted to feel humiliated. 

 

Any other time, he might have snapped awake and jumped clean out of Steve’s arms, after delivering a sound warning bite to the hand under his back. However, Rocket is a million miles from that version of himself right then and, feeling disarmingly secure, he decides to feign sleep. 

 

He realizes Steve is taking him up to his room as they step out onto the Guardians’ floor. He is momentarily embarrassed—his room is a mess of clutter and junk. Luckily it’s probably not as visible as Steve shifts Rocket to one arm and only turns on the bedside lamp. He pulls back the covers on the bed, and Rocket almost lets out a whine as Steve places him down. He’s never felt so needy before. It scares him, but sleep has been such a stranger to him these past few days and the exhaustion overwhelms all potential emotions. 

 

He feels the mattress dip, then a gentle hand petting him between the ears. Opening his eyes, the soft glow of the lamp illuminates Steve, who is now moving to tuck Rocket in, and notices he’s awake.

 

“Hey, Rocket.” He whispers, “I didn’t want to wake ya.”

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“Get some rest, buddy. I still want to talk to you, but that can wait, okay?” He slowly reaches to pet him between the ears again, but Rocket catches his big human hand in a little paw. Despite the tiredness, he feels disturbed by how much he doesn’t want Steve to leave him. He doesn’t say that, of course.

 

“…Thanks.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Sweet dreams.” Steve extricates his hand from Rocket’s and turns off the lamp, but he doesn’t leave.

Rocket would never admit how much that comforted him, just knowing Steve was there in the room. He begins to allow his mind to wander a little, imagine being carried like that everywhere. Drinking bottles, never worrying about being emotional, because that’s just what kids are. 

 

Sleep finally takes him, and for the first time in a long time, Rocket dreams of safe things.


End file.
